Moments
by Nessa4
Summary: When John and Sherlock aren't giggling at crime scenes or shooting holes in the wall, they're living a normal life. Well, as normal as you can get with the detective-blogger duo... Slice of life oneshots featuring Sherlock, John, Molly, Lestrade, Sally, Anderson, Moriarty, etc. Some canon-compliant, others not. No slash. Currently taking requests.
1. Glasses

John would never have guessed that Sherlock wasn't completely perfect. Not that he was in love or anything, because they were _not a couple. _But Sherlock was always in perfect health. Never a cold, or a sprained ankle, or a headache, nothing.

'Sherlock! Wake up!' John yelled.

'Whassamatter?' mumbled Sherlock. 'Don'wannagetup. M'sleepy. Go'way, give me one minute.'

_Sherlock Holmes is sleepy? I'm dreaming, right? Sherlock is never sleepy._

'SHERLOCK! Lestrade needs us!'

Sherlock sat up. 'Need to get changed.'

After walking into the wall a few times, Sherlock managed to get himself sorted out. John dismissed the walking into the wall as tiredness.

John had to guide Sherlock into the cab after he'd seen him fumbling for the door handle. 'What is it with you today?' he asked.

Sherlock ignored him and began searching in his pockets. John watched him. 'What're you looking for?' He had to ask three times before getting a response.

'The small black box I always keep in my pockets.'

'What, the one on your bedside table?' asked John.

'Oh, _damn it!' _cried Sherlock.

John was surprised. Sherlock never used bad language. 'What's it got that's so essential? Can't you wait till we get back?'

Sherlock mumbled something inaudible, scowling. 'Pardon?' asked John.

'Contact lenses.'

_What? _

'Sherlock, you could've told me before we left!'

'Doesn't matter. I have glasses.'

'Okay. Wait, _glasses?'_

'You don't expect me to walk in there half-blind, do you?'

Actually, John did, but he wasn't about to say that. He watched Sherlock fumble in his pockets and pull out a black case with SHERLOCK HOLMES written on it. It also had a yellow smiley face drawn in pen and traced with small holes, very like the smiley face on the wall of 221B.

John couldn't stop watching. He saw Sherlock put a pair of black glasses on his nose, squint at John then smile a little. 'I can see much better now. What do you think Anderson's going to say?'

They spent the rest of the journey doing Anderson impressions.

Sally started to shout, 'Freak's-' She broke off, looking surprised. '_What the hell? _Glasses?'

'Well done, Sally. Your observation skills now surpass those of a dead pigeon. Yes, I am wearing glasses.'

Sally still looked stunned. John couldn't help grinning at her. 'Come on, John. I haven't got time to listen to idiots.'

John hurried after Sherlock, still smiling.

Greg's reaction was the same. 'Sherlock, we've…wait, _glasses?'_

'Yes, glasses. Anything else?'

Sherlock deduced most of the victim's life story.

'I didn't know you had glasses,' said Greg.

'It's not something I tell everyone, you know,' answered Sherlock.

'You don't go around blind, do you?' asked Greg.

John didn't expect Sherlock to answer this. He was right, because Sherlock frowned, then asked, 'Why is everyone standing around? I didn't get up at three in the morning to discuss the fact that I don't have twenty-twenty vision! I think you'll find it was the brother. You're looking for a man in his twenties, five foot six perhaps seven, light brown hair…

'How do you know?' asked Sally suspiciously.

'You don't think I'm making this up on the spot, do you?'

John knew that Sally was too wise to retaliate. He was right.

On the cab back home, at barely seven in the morning, John asked the question that had been bugging him since Sherlock had put on his glasses. 'Sherlock? Can I ask you a question?' John watched Sherlock look at him almost warily. His eyes were the colour of quicksilver, even brighter than when he was wearing contacts.

'You just did. Do you want to ask me another?'

'I would have thought you'd have been…embarrassed to wear glasses in front of them?'

'Yes, of course I was embarrassed. At school they made my life hell. That was when I decided I wanted contacts. I haven't worn glasses for years. But when it's a choice between glasses and walking around blind, caring isn't an advantage. I don't care what they think of me anymore.'

John was vaguely surprised. 'I wasn't expecting that.'

'I know,' smiled Sherlock. He took off his glasses, tipped his head back and closed his eyes, indicating that the conversation was closed.

John never saw the glasses again.

But quite frankly, he wasn't that surprised.

**A/N: First story! Yay! If the formatting goes loopy I'll be onto it asap. If you've got to the end of this, that's amazing. I'm not very happy with this so I may update it at a later date. I've always been intrigued with Sherlock not being 100% perfect e.g. glasses/hearing aid etc. but in all the fics I've read, Sherlock has been embarrassed by it. I thought of writing a fic where he's not ashamed of it at all. And here it is :)**

**This is also going to become a multi chapter story. I've already planned a few but any ideas will be appreciated! **

**Thank you so much for reading this. Reviews mean the world to me and most other authors out there, and will be a huge boost to my confidence. Please review? :D**


	2. Team

It wasn't just a rumour, it was a fact; Lestrade's division of Scotland Yard could not, and would not, get on with each other. John had long since given up trying to be the peacemaker. Sally and Anderson made a point of antagonising Sherlock, who wasn't exactly sweetness and light to them, either. And Lestrade would always be caught in the middle, not knowing who to side with.

Anderson and Sherlock both often acted like they knew everything. But, as Lestrade had once said, 'The difference between Anderson acting like a know-it-all and Sherlock acting like a know-it-all is that Anderson deludes himself into thinking he knows it all, and Sherlock actually does know it all. It's why they're both so hard to cope with.'

Sally refused to let herself be caught in the middle. John knew that she respected Sherlock, if not liked him, but she had a long-standing mutual dislike of him, and would always side firmly with Anderson. John couldn't help remembering how Sherlock had introduced her as an 'old friend' and how she hadn't wavered upon her insistence that he was a freak.

But there was one day, just one, that John saw Scotland Yard working together, putting aside their differences.

It was another typical day in Scotland Yard. Anderson was trying to irritate Sherlock, who was being his usual 'it's-obvious' self. Sally and John were both intently studying the corpse, trying not to get involved.

'An amateur criminal, can't've committed many crimes before; evidently knows nothing about blows to the head. Quite messy and drawn out. The killer is quite short, about John's height-' John shot him a death glare, but Sherlock either didn't notice or ignored him, '-likely to be quite young, dark hair…'

Sherlock continued at his usual top speed. Suddenly, he stopped short. '_Oh_, I know where we'll find him! Come on, hurry up, it's getting dark.'

To John's immense surprise, Sally, Lestrade and Anderson followed him as well. Through a dark alleyway, out the other side, taking a wild detour through a closed road, John tried to keep track of where they were going but Sherlock was running too fast, and there were too many twists and turns.

'Should be around here,' said Sherlock slightly breathlessly. 'About…' he checked his watch, 'fifty seconds.' Sally exhaled slightly, putting an arm round Anderson, who was trying to catch his breath.

They stood around, trying to calm down. John had felt the effects of an adrenaline rush, and could feel his heart beating fast. Sally was counting under her breath, and Lestrade was breathing hard. John had the strange, nagging suspicion that they were being watched, but put it down to the aftereffects of an adrenaline rush.

They were standing by the Thames river. It was a surprisingly empty road, with just an inconspicuous man dressed in dark clothes leaning on the bridge's wall, slipping something into his pocket. Fog had gathered, leaving them unable to see further than a hundred metres in either direction. The fact that the sun was setting fast, and cold was setting in, didn't make anything easier.

'Sherlock—' Lestrade frowned, before stopping abruptly.

The next thing they knew, Lestrade was on the ground, gasping, and running away was a man; short, dark hair, quite young… John realised with a jolt that this was Sherlock's description of the criminal. He cursed aloud, as the other three members of Scotland Yard leaped up and towards him. Sod's law dictated that John's leg would seize up right then, and he stumbled. Sally caught him effortlessly, setting him back on his feet with surprising ease, considering the situation.

'What the hell's happening?' John couldn't tell where the yell came from, whether it was Anderson or Sherlock, or even Sally, but he knew that something was happening and that it wasn't good.

Then he felt a blow to the back of his head, and everything went black.

'John, wake up. Do not even think about staying there. We need you. John, get up or I'm going to—'

'S'okay, I'm up,' mumbled John. 'What's happening?' He heard the worry in Sally's voice, and knew that she wasn't joking. 'Lestrade?'

'Has been knifed and knocked into the Thames. Sherlock and Anderson are still trying to pull him out. It's bloody freezing and we're worried about hypothermia, amongst other things. You got knocked out by the killer, who managed to get away while we were trying to get Lestrade out. He wanted a diversion, so that we definitely wouldn't be able to go after him. Sherlock was all for running after him and punching his lights out, but Anderson managed to stop him. Come on, up, Lestrade's life is on the line and you're lying in a pool of your own blood.'

John staggered to his feet, still internally reeling from a combination of being knocked out and Sally's information, delivered at top speed. Sally pulled him over to the edge of the pavement, where Sherlock and Anderson were crouching over Lestrade's prone body.

'We got him out,' called Anderson. John braced himself for the inevitable insult, and Sherlock's snappy retort, but nothing came. Instead, the two men examined him carefully, feeling beneath his neck, and checking his pulse. Anderson looked expectantly up at John. 'Any ideas? You're the doctor around here.'

John shook his head, feeling dizzy. 'Possible trauma,' he replied. 'Check the pulse. CPR.' Every sound, every word was like an explosion in his mind, and he tried to keep his explanation limited, but Sherlock and Anderson both understood, saying nothing else.

Within seconds, his worst fears were confirmed. Sherlock swore under his breath, softly and viciously, and Anderson took off his coat to use as a pillow beneath Lestrade's head. Sherlock bent over the detective inspector, and began compressions.

'Hundred a minute,' called John. Sherlock frowned briefly. 'About one and a half per second. Don't hesitate, don't stop.' He stepped forward. While Sherlock continued, he examined Lestrade, along with Sally. 'No exit wound, could be worse. Like Sherlock said, inexperienced. Messy and painful; he specialises in blows to the head. Well, not _specialises _as such.'

Sally nodded, and continued his analysis. 'He fell into the river, so would've had oxygen deprivation for a few minutes. It may have been cold enough for hypothermia to set in, delaying his vital functions and therefore perhaps helping a little.'

Sherlock stopped pressing down, breathing quickly, and Anderson took over with barely five seconds delay, checking his pulse then resuming compressions. It wasn't exactly the model example of professionalism, and John had seen better during his days at the clinic, but Sherlock and Anderson were doing a good enough job.

Not that it seemed to be working.

Anderson and Sherlock worked together, one taking over when the other was unable to continue, and Sally and John worked to try and get him warm, and minimise blood loss. Four working as one, gears of a well-oiled machine.

Nothing was happening. The two men trying to restart Lestrade's heart admitted no exhaustion, but John could see Sherlock shaking, and Anderson gasping faintly, when suddenly Lestrade let out a gasp and started to cough out water.

It was beyond John's imagination, the four of them working as one to support him. John rolled him onto his uninjured side, Sherlock caught his flailing arms, Sally supported his head and shoulders, and Anderson murmured soothingly to him, calming him down. Eventually, he managed to sit up, gasping with pain and looking exhausted, but _alive. _

No one was in any state to move. It was cold, and dark, but they were all too tired. Sally's grim smile was tinged with fatigue and sadness. John still felt dizzy and sick from the hit to his head. Anderson was shaking from head to toe. From cold or exhaustion, or something else, John couldn't tell. Sherlock was breathing raggedly, clenching his fists, evidently trying to calm himself down. And Lestrade was in no position to go anywhere, having been stabbed and thrown into the Thames.

Looking around, John realised that he had never seen this before. He'd never seen them all so unguarded, so _vulnerable. _The smile on Sally's face that wasn't sarcastic or full of contempt. Anderson's gaze wasn't irritated or angry. Sherlock wasn't antagonising or arguing with anyone. This exhausted, yet intensely joyful atmosphere was something he'd never experienced.

'Don't worry, it won't happen again.' Sally broke into his thoughts with a grim smile, as if sensing what he was thinking. John grinned.

It was something he'd never experienced. And something he'd never forget.

**Hello, everyone! Happy almost-christmas! And happy new year if you don't celebrate christmas! :)** **I'm so sorry that I haven't updated for a very long time. Inspiration loss… If you've stuck with me, thank you so much! Thanks for reading, maybe you could leave a review? :D**


	3. Dancing on the Grave

**A/N: Very slightly cracky - not really supposed to be taken seriously :) Also, spoilers for Reichenbach Fall.**

As a rule, Mycroft Holmes did not dance.

He did not shout or giggle or flirt or cry or panic or relax or curse. He did not annoy people, and he did not get drunk or high or run around London just like his brother did. He did not do any of those ridiculously _human _things like care or have emotions.

And he especially did not dance.

Ever.

Mycroft was exhausted. He had barely slept for days. Not since Sherlock… not since his little brother had faked his death to save all of their lives.

He had been in on the plan. The Lazarus code, Molly Hooper's and the homeless network's involvement; all his ideas. But he could never have guessed at what Sherlock was truly planning. How could he have foreseen this; that after Plan A had failed, Plan B would be fifty times more drastic? It was not often that Mycroft underestimated his enemies, but he had underestimated Moriarty and the lengths that Sherlock's arch-nemesis would go to.

He knew Sherlock was alive and well, and in a different country by now. Yet the dangers he had willingly put himself in were stratospheric. If anything went wrong, the consequences would be enormous; not just for Sherlock and Mycroft.

His phone buzzed, and he almost knocked over a pile of carefully sorted papers in his effort to get to them.

_Reminder: Meeting with the Prime Minister at 17:05 today. _

Mycroft scowled. He had let himself hope that it would be Sherlock, though he knew his brother would not text him until he was safely out of the way, until he had found an untraceable phone. _What are you doing now, Sherlock? What dangers have you put yourself in? _

Suddenly he stood up, with a new resolve. 'Anthea,' he called, 'I'm going for a walk. Please notify me immediately if anyone texts or calls.'

'Okay,' she replied. He wondered how much of the desperation had shown in his voice, on his face, and whether she had understood that by if _anyone _he meant _Sherlock._

Mycroft walked. He let the chill air cool his face and soothe his mind. Without awareness of where he was going, he let his rhythmic footsteps lull him into a sense of almost peacefulness. Still hardly aware of what he was doing, ignoring the voices and noises around him of everyday London, he stopped in the middle of the cemetery, in front of a familiar black stone. _Sherlock Holmes._

A flood of memories overwhelmed him, so intense that he briefly closed his eyes. Not allowing himself to stay in front of the gravestone any longer, for fear of losing his composure, he walked further on.

Then he saw it. A mound of earth, an unmarked gravestone; he recognised it instantly.

Moriarty.

The man who had taken apart their lives. Who had shot to kill, who was sadistic and psychopathic and murderous and insane.

Who was dead. Who could not torment them anymore.

Too little, too late. But Moriarty was dead, and that was enough for now.

Mycroft furtively looked around. The sky was clouding over, and the cemetery was empty, with no sign of anyone approaching.

He took a step towards the grave. And another, and another, faster and faster, and then he was dancing; not running, but _dancing _around the grave of the man who had tried to take their lives apart, and failed. Dancing and jumping and grinning, Mycroft was happier than he had been in a very, very long time.

Jim Moriarty was dead, and Sherlock was alive.

With a rush of peace and happiness, Mycroft stopped to catch his breath. Looking around again, he hoped no one had seen him; he would never live it down if they had.

Turning around, Mycroft began the long walk back to his office.

_What of Moriarty? -SH_

Sherlock thumbed in the text wearily, carefully shielding his new phone. Though he was sure no one was watching, he could never be too careful. Not after what had happened. Not after Moriarty had taken down everything.

He didn't have to wait very long for a reply. He was still walking purposefully, picturing a warm bed and eight hours of sleep, when his phone vibrated. Instantly fishing his phone out of his pocket, he read the reply.

_I have had the pleasure of dancing on his unmarked grave. -MH_

And in a busy town in mid-Russia, many miles away, for the first time in days, Sherlock smiled.

**A/N: Hello again! I am so sorry for not updating; the muse keeled over sideways, and I've had a hell of a lot going on recently. I'll try and update more often, especially as I've got more active on the kink meme where there are lots of prompts as starting points. (If you haven't been there before, check it out - it's ****_amazing) _****This was a fill to a prompt on the kink meme; **

**_I was reading a fanfic when this line was said:_**

**_What of Moriarty? -SH_**

**_I had the pleasure of dancing on his unmarked grave. -MH_**

**_Could I please have Mycroft out in the middle of a field somewhere dancing over Moriarty's grave? Make the dance as silly and stupid as possible. Cosplay, art, fic, I don't care, someone just do this!_**

**and decided to fill it. I thought it'd be good posted on here. What do you guys think? Reviews would be welcome :)**


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